


'Cause If You're Not Really Here (Then I Don't Want To Be Either)

by StormyDaze



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Belly Rubs, Gen, Mpreg, Pregnant With The Antichrist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-27
Updated: 2019-07-27
Packaged: 2020-07-23 06:31:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20003860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StormyDaze/pseuds/StormyDaze
Summary: Crowley's role in "delivering" the antichrist is a little more involved.





	'Cause If You're Not Really Here (Then I Don't Want To Be Either)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BiffElderberry](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BiffElderberry/gifts).



**Eleven years and 9 months before the end of the world**

“Our Master has a task for you, Crowley,” Hastur said, when they had finished recounting the deeds of the day.

Crowley’s eyes widened behind his glasses. “No,” he said futilely. 

“Yes,” said Ligur.

“Already?” Crowley asked.

“Yes,” said Hastur. 

“And it’s up to me to—?”

“Yes,” the two other demons said in unison. Hastur put a hand on Crowley’s abdomen.

“You know, listen, look, it… really isn’t my scene,” Crowley stammered.

“Your scene. Your starring role,” said Ligur. “Take it.”

“Like you said, times are changing,” Hastur said.

“They come to an end, for a start,” said Ligur.

“Why me?”

“Well they love you down there,” said Hastur sardonically. “And what an opportunity. Ligur here would give his right arm to be you tonight.”

“Or someone’s right arm, anyway,” Ligur amended helpfully.

“Take it,” Hastur said. He still hadn’t removed his hand from Crowley’s belly.

Crowley sighed and closed his eyes. He reached deep down inside himself and tugged, a bit like pulling the plug in the bath. A tiny spark of something slid into him and settled, safe and warm, in his belly. “Now what?” he asked.

“You will receive your instructions,” Hastur told him. “And why so glum? The moment we’ve been working for all these centuries is at hand.”

“Centuries,” Crowley said dully.

“Our moment of eternal triumph awaits,” said Ligur.

“Triumph,” Crowley echoed.

“And you will be a tool of that glorious destiny,” Hastur continued.

“Glorious tool, yeah,” said Crowley. “Okay, um. I’ll be off, then. Great, fine, yeah. Ciao.” He fled back to the safety of the Bentley.

* * *

He wasn’t _avoiding_ Aziraphale, exactly. It had just been a very busy six months, what with preparing for the end of the world and all. And he didn’t like going out in public much, looking like this. Something about being visibly pregnant made humans think they had a right to put their hands all over you without asking. Crowley didn’t mind certain humans, but it still made his skin crawl.

He definitely wasn’t sulking with the curtains drawn, still in bed at half past three, when Aziraphale arrived at his flat. When he heard the buzzer, he buried his head in a pillow and willed the human on the other side to go away. Of course, this didn’t work, since it wasn’t a human on the other side at all. A moment later, the door clicked open, and Aziraphale’s voice carried through the flat. “Hello? Crowley? Are you in here?”

Crowley had conveniently forgotten to mention his… condition to Aziraphale. He considered pretending he wasn’t home, or better yet, actually not being home, but performing demonic miracles tended to make him feel woozy and nauseous since the beginning of his second trimester. And Aziraphale was bloody persistent, when he wanted to be. And he didn’t want to admit that maybe he _missed_ the angel, but well, the stress of the impending apocalypse was beginning to get to him, and it would be nice to share that burden with someone else.

So he hauled himself out of bed, snatched his sunglasses off the dresser, and answered the door.

He was pleased to watch Aziraphale struck speechless by the sight of him, his round belly stretching the black t-shirt and sweatpants he wore. There was very little in Heaven, Hell, or Earth that could surprise the angel like this.

“Come in before the neighbors see you,” Crowley said, waving Aziraphale into the flat.

Aziraphale made a great business of removing his coat and hanging it on a coatrack that Crowley was sure he had not owned a moment ago. Finally, he turned back to examine Crowley again, his eyebrows edging up to his hairline.

“I think you’d better explain,” he said eventually.

So they sat on the sofa and Crowley told him about armageddon, about the antichrist and the plan to have him raised by the American diplomat. 

“Got another three months to go,” Crowley finished, sipping a cup of tea [1].“And then everything goes off with a bang, doesn’t it?”

He winced as the antichrist gave him a particularly vicious kick to the ribs. Little bugger had started moving early and had barely paused since.

“Are you quite all right?” Aziraphale asked, setting his own teacup on its saucer.

“Yeah, ’s fine, he’s just got strong legs,” Crowley said.

“I meant, er, more in general,” Aziraphale said. “With this whole business. Are you all right with it?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Crowley asked, which wasn’t an answer and they both knew it.

Aziraphale considered listing all the reasons why Crowley might not be all right, and decided that wouldn’t be helpful at this point. “Can I feel him?” he asked instead.

Crowley looked surprised. “I guess, if you want.” He shrugged.

Aziraphale sat the teacup on a nearby table and reached out to place one hand on Crowley’s belly. Crowley rucked his shirt up farther, revealing more of the pale skin lined with blue veins. The antichrist kicked again, a visible distortion of the skin. Aziraphale marveled at the strange feeling of the flesh moving beneath his hand. He began to rub Crowley’s belly in wide circles.

Crowley threw his head back and groaned, a rather obscene sound. Aziraphale paused his hand. “Sorry,” he said, pulling away.

Crowley glared at him behind the glasses. “Don’t you dare stop, angel.”

So Aziraphale massaged Crowley’s belly, feeling Crowley relax underneath him. The baby antichrist seemed to be calming as well. At the very least, he didn’t kick so hard.

The whole time, Aziraphale was thinking.

The easiest way to deal with the whole thing would be to kill the antichrist now, but, well, the idea was unsavory. Not that Aziraphale hadn’t done his share of killing on God’s orders, but that sort of thing had fallen out of fashion about two thousand years ago and was now considered embarrassingly passé. There was also the small matter that anything he did to the baby now risked harming Crowley, and for some reason Aziraphale shied away from that idea without really considering why.

And once the baby was born, well. It wasn’t Crowley’s child, not really, but as much as Aziraphale had mixed feelings about the end of the world, he had a nasty suspicion that he was becoming attached to the thing growing inside his best friend. He chose not to consider why that was, either.

“Maybe… it doesn’t have to be like this,” he said slowly. “Perhaps we could… keep an eye on the child. After he’s with his new family.”

“See that he grows up properly,” Crowley said, cottoning on immediately. “I know Hell would want me to take an active role in his development.”

“And of course, I must be there to thwart you,” Aziraphale said.

“If we do it properly, perhaps there won’t be an armageddon after all,” Crowley said. _And I’ll still be able to see him,_ he didn’t say.

* * *

Crowley was alone in his flat, strategically plotting potholes on a map of London so as to cause as many flat tires as possible, when a shock of pain shuddered through him, and suddenly he was sitting in a wet patch. “Fuck,” he said.

It was time.

Crowley translocated himself to the convent. The effort required to power the miracle almost landed him face down on the ground, and he thought he was about to be sick as he lurched to his feet.

“What room?” he asked the American diplomat, who was standing nearby, looking startled at the spontaneous appearance of a pregnant person in a hoodie.

“Er, I think we’re in room three, so—” the diplomat replied, in a surprisingly un-American accent. Crowley didn’t stick around to hear more, just lurched into the convent, clutching his belly, which was contracting rapidly and painfully. He summoned the nearest nun and had her help him to a room. She put him in room two.

Crowley was no stranger to pain. He had experienced the fires of hell, along with a variety of other, more inventive tortures: branding, whipping, tickling, sitting closely to a person chewing loudly with their mouth open. None of them compared to the agony of childbirth. If this really was the Almighty’s idea of an appropriate punishment for Eve eating that apple, well, someone might want to talk to Her about disproportionate retribution. On the other hand, the fact that human women[2] did this all the time gave Crowley a great respect for them.

“Take it to room three,” he told the nun, while she wrapped the baby antichrist in a blankie and cooed over his wittle toesie-woesies. 

“Do you want to hold him first?” she asked, offering him the small bundle.

Crowley closed his eyes. “No,” he said. “Take it to room three.” There was really no more reason for him to be here. He translocated back to his flat.

He crawled into bed and pulled the blankets up to his nose and very definitely _didn’t_ cry, not even a little. He’d see the child again. Soon.

[1]Aziraphale, who had considered himself English since before there was an England, held as a fundamental belief the fact that tea would solve or at least mitigate any problem. If you’d asked Crowley this morning, he’d have sworn he didn’t have any Earl Grey in his cupboard, nor did he own floral-patterned teacups.

[2]And sometimes people of other genders, Crowley was led to believe, although as a demon, he didn’t have a gender and really wasn’t sure what one was, although humans seemed to make a great deal of fuss over them.

**Author's Note:**

> In the interest of not being C*ssie Cl*re, I'd like to say that the first scene is taken almost word for word from the dialogue in episode one of the tv show. I made a couple of small tweaks. The rest is original.
> 
> Title from "Black and Gold" by Sam Sparro.


End file.
